


Gravid

by f_m_r_l



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crack, Mpreg, Multi, Sex Pollen, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first sentence written for a Bulwer-Lytton type of kinkmeme prompt. Then people asked for the fic that would follow such a sentence. </p>
<p><b>The original warnings read:</b> tentacles, non-con, mpreg (of sorts), OFC (own female cephalopod), bestiality (see previous), het (see OFC), sex pollen, flashback, medical impossibilities, creatures just as realistic as some of the ones in canon, characters just as consistent as the ones seen in canon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravid

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the relatively unsquickable unsettled, who did the beta work. None of this is her fault.

Holmes, extremely gravid with the product of his, Watson’s, and the tentacle monster’s threesome, broke into throat-wrenching sobs at the desertion as Watson headed out into the night — perhaps to procure pickles and ice cream but more likely (Holmes suspected) in order to cuddle with the tentacle beast, which had kept its writhey figure.

Two months had passed and there had been no indication of when this misery would come to an end. Now it was time, almost past time. Holmes headed off into the night alone.

~o~O~o~

It had all started innocently enough. In what would later fail to be written up as "The Adventure of the Gargantuan Cephalopod", Holmes was studying a rare breed of octopus to see if they could have been trained to break into houses through the coal chutes to steal, among other things, the coal. The cottage Watson and he occupied was near a remote section of the coast, with majestic sweeps of generally unoccupied beaches and the occasional hidden cove. As there was no way for him to work at night and nothing else to investigate in the area, he had little to do after darkness fell than dine and achieve a sufficient amount of sleep. Watson had already repeatedly expressed approval of the fresh air, the view, and the fact that though Holmes was involved in a case he was at least away from the very worst influences of London: to wit, too many chances to work and too many villains who would gladly take out the great Sherlock Holmes at a moment’s opportunity. Yet Holmes had enough interesting work to keep him at the coast and occupied during the day; it was an idyllic situation.

~o~O~o~

Sherlock Holmes stood knee deep amongst the waves, obliviously blistering under the sun, the glare reflecting off the water to hit him from several directions at once. His attention was focused on a spot upon the ocean floor and he was apparently unaware of Watson, who had turned up carrying a picnic basket full of food and an awkward bundle of towels, hats, sun umbrellas and a bathing suit. It was several minutes before Holmes turned to address Watson; long enough for Watson to have set everything down, arranged it to his liking, and prepared for a swim himself. "It turns out, my dear doctor, that the species I was studying was in no way able to stay out of the water long enough to commit the burglaries, no matter how well trained."

Watson shifted his weight and stared out to sea, fingering a piece of paper that he had kept with him despite having changed into his swimsuit.

"However, I believe that I have discovered an entirely new species of cephalopod! It appears to have unique talents in the field of camouflage, and I would like to engage in further study before we continue our investigations back in London." Holmes pointed at an oddly sinuous shape that seemed to be part of the seabed, and Watson gingerly splashed into the cool water to get a better view.

"I haven’t been able to precisely count the number of tentacles yet, though I’m certain there are more than eight. I’ve hesitated to get too close because I didn’t want to panic it and chase it away." As Holmes took a step closer, a dark liquid shot from the creature, spreading in rapidly moving tendrils, movements echoed by the tentacles that began to reach in their direction. "The ink works to confuse its enemies and help it make an..."

Holmes rocked as the first drift of ink encountered his skin. It was as though he were suddenly at the awful edge of orgasm, thought impossible, coherency impossible, nothing possible except to thrust into sensation, hoping desperately to ride out the feeling on waves of climax. Sinuous tentacles reached him and he shuddered in desire at their touch. He could almost feel each grain of sand that cradled his feet as chill waves caressed his legs in a thoroughly enticing manner. The sun and spray contrasted sharply on his back and he arched in response, lost in touch. For a moment, he came close enough to conscious thought to wonder how he’d taken his swimsuit off without noticing, but that was too simple a mystery to lure him away from pure sensation. The very breeze was sex, the scent of the ocean was sex, and John Watson — who had frantically shed his swimsuit and stood gasping and aroused, drops of water glistening in his chest hair and running down his sides, green and purple iridescent tentacles twining themselves slowly up his legs — was most definitely sex. Holmes couldn’t even hypothesize as to why he had never noticed before, instead reaching forward to kiss and nibble along Watson’s jaw as Watson traced his hands across Holmes’s body. Holmes was momentarily enraptured by the way Watson’s nipples nestled, slightly pink, amidst his golden chest hair. He briefly and gently took one of Watson’s nipples between his teeth then mouthed his way down Watson’s side, briefly tracing the curve of his ribs, before sliding down Watson’s body to and landing on his knees, face against Watson’s crotch. The feel of Watson’s cock against his lips, against his tongue, against the inside of his cheek, thrusting back towards his throat, the very scent of him, was almost too much — far more important than the cool, clinging, muscular movement of tentacles twisting up his legs, even than the one that writhed across his cock, or the one that pushed slowly and slickly into his ass, adding yet another level of stimulation.

He couldn’t tell how long this went on, poised on what seemed like the brink of orgasm, needing just a bit more; receiving it, only to discover that it still wasn’t quite enough — until suddenly he felt a push at his navel. Then the salt taste of John’s come flooded his mouth, mixing with the salt taste of sea; the sound of John’s keening drowned out even the sound of gulls, and everything was pounding, was pulsing into an orgasmic haze — John, the cephalopod, himself, surely even the waves and sunlight and gulls.

It was a few minutes before he could gather himself enough to crawl to the beach and sprawl in near exhaustion. He took a moment to evaluate his condition. He was sore in places that had never previously been used in such a manner, he was still somewhat shaky, and Watson.... That, that was why he made a policy of never becoming sexually involved. He couldn’t think when he was carried away by his passions. He couldn’t reason when he was deeply aroused. He couldn’t even, it seemed, make logical decisions about sex with his colleague. Having sex with the tentacle beast was one thing, but his working relationship with Watson had just been inexcusably jeopardized. Would Watson be repulsed by him now? He had seemed like the one person who would never desert Holmes. Would things become quietly strained until they drifted apart?

Would Watson care that Holmes had no more been in control than Watson? Holmes was certain that the ink was an instant, overpowering contact aphrodisiac; that could be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. But why would it work on humans? Would it work the same way towards other cephalopods as it did towards humans? His earlier observations had confirmed that this cephalopod, like the octopus species he had initially studied, could ‘taste’ with receptors in its tentacles. The cephalopod would have tasted that it wasn’t mating with another cephalopod. Why would it have continued?

"Holmes?" Watson had managed to stand, casting welcome shade across Holmes face.

"Yes, Watson?"

"You are quickly acquiring what I fear will prove to be a most inconvenient sunburn, and appear to be, well," Watson stared at Holmes for a minute, then stared out to sea, blushing, "you appear to be in a delicate condition." Holmes quietly breathed a sigh of relief; Watson’s eyes held the same regard, his tone the same warmth as ever before. Watson had always been steadfast. Perhaps their relationship would remain unchanged.

They gathered everything together and discreetly made their way back to the cottage as quickly as possible.

~o~O~o~

The examination which followed was one of the most touchy, embarrassing, and awkward experiences of their lives, as Holmes had developed a sudden fear of letting Watson anywhere near his stomach, a fear rooted in a strong desire to protect... something. But emotions were not going to rule him, damn it, so he clutched the edges of the bed while Watson proceeded to take a closer look, trying consciously to relax his muscles as his body prepared to punch, kick, and bite without his intellect’s consent.

Watson used a mirror to reflect sunlight from the window into Holmes’s navel, stretching gently and carefully feeling the area surrounding it. There was a large number of apparently subcutaneous lumps surrounding the navel, pushing the top layer of skin into a rounded form. "How does it feel?"

"Stretched. I had a fever once that made me bloat, and it felt exactly like this except ...lighter, somehow." Holmes continued gripping the bed, while keeping a sharp eye on Watson, who had adopted his most professional manner.

"The most straightforward explanation for what I’m seeing is that the cephalopod deposited its eggs through your navel and slightly under the skin, attached somehow to the underlying tissue." Watson somewhat clinically ran a finger across Holmes’s navel. "You can feel the presence of the rounded subcutaneous lumps yourself, and I can see incisions here," he pointed, "and over here, though the flesh has somehow bonded back together." Watson’s mask slipped just for a second, and it took a moment for him to wrestle a look of profound concern from his features. "You may be a form of protection for the eggs."

Watson’s expression shifted to one Holmes had seen whenever Watson felt a need to reassure female clients. "No need to worry too much about it, old chap. In the normal course of events, if the offspring are no larger than the egg, the young would likely exit the same way they entered."

Holmes found the medical manner Watson had assumed reassuring. "Can you anticipate how long it will be until they do so?"

"Holmes, we can easily rid..." Watson stepped back as Holmes let go of the bed. "No. I have no idea. We don’t even know what kind of beast that was."

This was all the information Holmes needed to receive. He pulled his dressing gown around his protruding belly and went into the sitting room to think.

Watson did not follow for quite some while. When he did, it was with some hesitation that he produced the piece of paper he’d been fidgeting with at the beach. It was a telegram.

BURGLARS USING SMUGGLED ORIENTAL SLUG  
MONKEYS STOP APPREHENDED STOP

Holmes’s research had all been for nothing.

~o~O~o~

Holmes found it dreadfully dull in the cottage without any of his usual occupations. The chemistry set had been left behind at Baker Street. No mysteries intruded upon his reverie. For entertainment he had various games, the occasional book, and fending off Watson’s unwanted advances.

"I assure you, Watson, that though I hold you in the highest regard, my reasons for not taking a lover have in no way changed." Although Holmes had explained the situation to Watson many times, this was one area in which Watson was failing to follow his reasoning. "I cannot allow the desires of my body to overwhelm the needs of my mind."

"Holmes, I hardly think...."

"Though we don’t know how long this situation will last, it is a temporary setback at worst. If I begin a romantic relationship with you, it would be a distraction for the rest of my life. I might never have a rational thought again!"

"That’s... oddly romantic of you, Holmes. But..." Watson looked a little lost. However, faced with Holmes’s most implacable look, he moved the subject on to the cephalopod ink and how important it was to be able to understand and predict its effects, in case the substance happened to make its way into the hands of a poisoner. Holmes, after giving Watson a knowing look and briefly rolling his eyes, concurred that an investigation into the ink could be important and would be necessary to complete his study of the animal.

Watson was sent to collect some more of the ink. Holmes felt uncomfortable being seen outside, primarily for reasons of his vanity as nobody would suspect Holmes’s bizarre condition. Watson reported back that for some reason the creature was staying close to the same spot it had last been seen. The creature sprayed ink whenever Watson came close, but still refrained from using camouflage to flee.

The cephalopod ink no longer had an aphrodisiac effect upon him. Watson expressed having felt a strange sense of well-being — happiness, even — when coming into contact with the fresh ink in the salt water, but no arousal. Said effect did not survive the transportation back to the cottage, neither for Watson nor Holmes.

Within ten minutes of being produced, the ink was ineffective when drunk without alteration, when used for tea, or when cooked into vast quantities of chicken soup to make it more palatable. Dried, formed into capsules, and choked down five times a day, it did nothing but make Holmes thirsty. The task of getting enough ink infused seawater back up to the cottage for a bath had proven insurmountable, but pouring smaller amounts of ink into Holmes’s regular bathwater merely turned the water a rather suspicious shade of blue.

And they had no idea if the ink the creature excreted had changed or their reactions had changed after initial exposure. "Holmes, you can’t be serious," was all Watson had replied when Holmes had suggested trying the ink on another subject. Holmes could not manage to lure someone down to the creature on his own without leaving the cottage, so that idea went untested.

~o~O~o~

The knife hit the wall a mere whisker to the left of Watson’s head. Holmes had not been able to touch cocaine, alcohol, or even his pipe since that night. He just somehow couldn’t bring himself to do it. There were also attacks of what, in a woman, Watson would have termed ‘hysteria’. And they were getting worse.

It was entirely too bad that Holmes was so far from the water and the soothing effects of the cephalopod ink. (In Holmes’s better moments, he and Watson theorized that the purpose behind the current effects of the ink might be to keep the carrier of the eggs calmer and thus safer.)

"You are obviously of no use as a doctor if you cannot cure a simple case of nausea."

Watson stood stock still and wide eyed as a knife suddenly quivered in the wall to the right of his head.

"And you are no use as a friend when you didn’t stop this from happening to me in the first place." Holmes looked around for more knives. They had been disappearing mysteriously of late. He’d only managed to lay his hands on the last two because he’d hidden them himself. Holmes grabbed a bottle, instead. "You participated!"

Holmes looked as though he was trying to decide where he wanted to throw the bottle. "And if you are no use as a doctor, and no use as a friend, and no use as a soldier, then YOU ARE NO BLOODY USE AT ALL!"

Watson ducked as the bottle broke against the wall just above where his head had been, fortunate to avoid the shrapnel. In one smooth move he dodged out the door. Sometimes chocolate helped. Sometimes sour things were the only things Holmes could keep down. Sometimes Holmes just needed to cool off and ice cream would do the trick. But there was no telling ahead of time. Watson had started bringing chocolate, pickles, and ice cream along every time he planned to enter the door of the cottage. There was a girl down the street who was happy to have the ice cream ready for purchase if he ordered it ahead of time. She would even make it available at night — at three times the price. It was worth it.

Watson hadn’t planned to go out tonight, so he hadn’t made any orders for ice cream to ease his way back. Holmes knew that Watson would have to wake the girl up and persuade her to accept Watson’s order. If Watson was going to come back with peace offerings it would take a while.

Holmes abhorred these sudden fits of temper and weeping, hated the way they somehow got the best of him despite his former mastery of his emotions, and was beginning to loathe himself for giving in to them. His logic and calm, which had stood him in good stead in the past, seemed to have deserted him. Was it some kind of poison from the eggs? Was it some sort of illness as his body attempted to reject them? Watson could in no way be moved to vouchsafe an opinion on the topic.

The choking sobs took him. It had been two months and he was not sure how he could last two days longer, or how his friendship with Watson could survive it.

And now, with Watson gone, Holmes found himself compelled, urgently needing to return to the ocean. He desperately hoped that Watson had gone to spend time with the beast after all. Shoes were necessary, as were pants, though he needed to leave them undone at the top and hope that his greatcoat would disguise the problem. He needed speed more than he needed a shirt, let alone an undershirt, collar, cuffs, waistcoat, cravat, jacket, or hat. Holmes staggered out the door as quickly as he could, then headed out through moonlight and shadows, scrambling ponderously over rocks towards the sound of surf, twisting his ankle at one point but barely even slowing in his urgency.

The cool water felt soothing against his ankle as he splashed into the ocean. A cloud obscured the moonlight. Holmes felt an unexpected wave pull him down — but then he was lifted up and held where he could breath, strong tentacles supporting him. Watson was nowhere in sight. He could easily guess what was about to happen, and with no other midwife than the creature.

One slimy tentacle slipped briefly into his mouth and he quickly felt wonderful. He was happy in a way he had seldom experienced before — happy without the dread of the coming crash lurking in the background. Absolutely nothing hurt, not his ankle, not his back, not his spirits, not even the pressure of his swollen stomach.

A tranquilizing painkiller that was absorbed through the membrane; that would explain the cephalopod’s actions earlier, just before it had implanted the eggs, and why the implantation of the eggs hadn’t hurt more. If he had known, he might have endeavored to take it orally upon the first occasion. Or perhaps not. He could not quite regret his brief opportunity to forgo his apprehensions and be with Watson.

Holmes was certain that if he simply focused on exploring the biological science of the of the situation, it would assist him in remaining detached from what he assumed would be a fairly unpleasant experience to come. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and let it fall open; there was no way of doing this fully clothed, no possibility of keeping his dignity intact. An especially slimy tendril snaked, eel-like, across his stomach, then circled his navel, pushing goo down into it. Something gave, and a fluid washed back out his navel, followed by a sensation of pressure. Something was squeezing itself out through his navel, pushing through despite the incredible tightness of the space, wiggling desperately. By moonlight Holmes saw the small creature — no more than three inches long — pull free of his belly and slide down to meet the waves. His relief was short-lived, as before the creature met the water another was pushing its way through, smooth dome shoving against the already battered hole. Over and over, one after another, creatures pushed their way past and into the waves. He lost track of the number of creatures and just clung to the tentacle that supported him, suction cups giving his fingers something to hold against as he threw back his head and breathed into the night. Nothing hurt now, but how long would it take him to recover?

Then it was over, and a tentacle began oozing its way across his stomach quickly, splashing seawater repeatedly against him. He could feel the cold of the seawater inside of him, washing through the empty spaces that had recently carried a living burden, carrying away snaking bits of flotsam. Slime followed into the cavity, and small tendrils smoothed against his belly, inside and out. There was not enough energy left inside him to care as he passed out against the slick embrace of the cephalopod.

When he awoke, Watson was there, holding him upright and trying to tug him towards the shore. The creature and its offspring were nowhere to be seen. He reached for his stomach to explore for damage, but there was only a slight lingering soreness and no other sign of what had happened.

~o~O~o~

Ticket in hand, paper by his side, luggage in its place, facing Watson — who already had his yellow-backed sea novel in his lap — Holmes turned resolutely from the train window, determined he would never look back. London awaited him, an ever-changing array of clever crimes to solve, sublime art to enjoy, contacts to cultivate, surely as effective as the waters of Lethe. His own familiar chair, his own window, an after-dinner pipe and his favorite brandy would be there. Holmes shuddered at the thought of ever visiting the seaside again. Turning from the window, he opened the London paper and immersed himself in the agony columns.

~o~O~o~


End file.
